The Funky Mishap
by SomeoneAlive
Summary: Paul had always been the most popular of the four, at least with the ladies and possibly some queer men as well (they were never quite sure). Ringo wasn't unpopular, so to speak, just the least popular out of the four. This was fine, it was just how it was. But what happens when Ringo accidentally does something to upset that balance? How will Paul react to being left in the shadow
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles. If I did, none of them would've married.**

 _Okay, so. Le summary:_

 _Paul had always been the most popular of the four, at least with the ladies and possibly some queer men as well (they were never quite sure). Ringo wasn't_ unpopular _, so to speak, just the least popular out of the four. This was fine, it was just how it was. But what happens when Ringo accidentally does something to upset that balance? How will Paul react to being left in the shadow of his formerly unpopular band-mate? Will John get really pissed off at Ringo for taking Macca's spotlight? Will George be okay when Ringo starts to let it get to his head?_ Will _Ringo let it get to his head? To find out, read all about_ "The Funky Mishap" _!_

 _P.S. This probably won't be the most historically accurate fic out there. Just bear with me, folks._

 _P.P.S. This has lots of Ringo bashing, but honestly, folks, I love Ringo. He's my fave, so I'm really just pointing out the unjustness of people ignoring him, right? Right._

 _P.P.P.S This isn't meant to be slash, but I ship McLennon and Starrison so be warned. It might come out unexpectedly._

Third Person POV:

It was a clear Saturday evening in May, 1964, and New York was still on a high as the Beatles finished their concert for the night. Bending over in their customary bow, the four young men trudged off the stage carrying their respective instruments. Or, in Ringo's case, his drumsticks, as it was rather hard to carry a whole drum set by yourself. Anyway, we follow the boys down some stairs, around a corner, into a car, and then after a while, into a hotel room. We see the tallest young man set his bass down in a stand near a corner of the room, then plop down unceremoniously onto the springy couch, his butt flying off the seat momentarily. Next we see the auburn-haired man, who wasn't really that tall but just carried himself that way, lean his guitar against the wall, then plop down on that previously mentioned couch next to the other young man. The young man with the dark, bushy eyebrows (or should I say 'brow') set his guitar lovingly in its stand, then went over and sat in one of the armchairs near the telly. The Beatles, in all their young-attractive-boy-band-glory, are sitting right – wait a minute! We forgot someone? But who? Oh, yes, Ringo. The shortest Beatle, the one with the frickin' huge nose, and the slightly over-sized mouth that wasn't too attractive for kissing purposes, as well as those dopey little sad-puppy-dog blue eyes that were admittedly adorable. He set his drumsticks over on one of the counters, then sat down in the other armchair. Now, young reader, what might those four young lads be doing? Let's see, shall we?

Ringo looks at his hands with a sort of melancholy fascination.

"I've got blisters on me fingers."

John looks up from where he was staring at Paul's long, girly lashes towards Ringo, who he gives a little grin to.

"Aye, 've you been wankin' off too much, there, sonny?"

Ringo scowls a little at John, but he's smiling, too. Paul chuckles lightly. George had pulled a sandwich out of his pocket and was munching on it quietly, not really paying attention to the conversation.

John turns back to Paul, who was staring off into the distance.

"Eh, Paulie? How'd you get your lashes to be so long and curled like? I've 'eard birds use curlers. D'you got a lash curler, Paul?" John asks with a touch of incredulity towards the end.

Paul smiles flirtatiously at John and bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

"Oh, Johnny, you've figured me out! I'm busted now, I am. What'm I to tell the reporters when they ask me about lash-curling techniques?"

"You could always tell 'em that Johnny-boy 'ere has been curlin' 'em for ya," Ringo says with a smirk. This then causes George, who had been on his way to get another bite of his sandwich, to splutter and cough up crumbs trying not to laugh.

"Christ, Geo, I know I'm funny but I'm not anythin' to go chokin' yerself on!" Ringo gets up and starts thumping George on the back, causing his choke-laughs to cease.

Just then, a knock came on the door. John got up, peered through the peep-hole, as was necessary when you're famous and creepy fangirl stalkers will come to your room, then opened up the door, seeing as it was a fan-mail delivery man.

"Eh, lads, the mail's 'ere!"

Paul, George, and Ringo made their way towards the doorway to collect their respective fan-mail bags.

"Uh, this one's for George, this one here for John, this's Ringo, now this one's fer Paul," the delivery man rattled off as he handed the bags off to each Beatle.

Finding seats on the floor that were fairly spaced out from each other, all of them dumped their bags upside down. Paul and John had the most, but Paul had just a bit more. George had about ¾ of theirs, and Ringo had about half of George's.

Paul reached down and picked the top one off of the pile, one smelling strongly of something flowery that had a 99.9% chance of being some bird's perfume. Sniffing lightly, he ripped open the envelope, stuck his hand inside, and gave a little yelp, blushing slightly.

"Oi! Me letter's got a pair o' knickers in it!" He cried incredulously, pulling the pink, lacy thing out with a mixture of fascination, awe, and disgust, as his face slowly turned the shade of the underwear he was holding.

John looked up at him, "It's not anythin' to go shoutin' about, Paulie, it's 'appened before."

"Yeah, but, I think this pair's been _used!_ " He said that last word with about as much disgust as he could put into a single word, scrunching his cute face that all the fans adored into a mask of repulsion.

Paul then dropped the undergarment onto the floor and scooted away from it slightly as if he expected it to move.

John opened a letter from somewhere on the side of his pile. It had little pink hearts drawn all over the envelope and what looked like a lipstick kiss over the sealed part (whatever that's called). Opening it, he read aloud in his high, girly voice: " _Dear John, I love you! I want you to get rid of that Cynthia and come with me! You're soooo handsome and manly_ [Paul snorted at this] _and I just can't wait to see you again! Do you remember me? Of course you do, you silly little thing. I was at that concert of yours on April 15_ _th_ _, don't you remember? I'm the blonde with that hot pink dress on. Oh, and I'm 12_ [Ringo then proceeded to choke on thin air] _, but that won't make much difference when you're 50 and I'm 39, will it? I love you, Johnny! Kiss, kiss, kiss, signed Elizabeth Parker, soon to be Lennon._ "

John, grinning in amusement, tossed the letter to the side and picked up a new one with a flourish.

George opened a letter, read it silently, eyes widening significantly, then handed it wordlessly to John, quickly turning a bright shade of scarlet.

"Ahem," John started reading the letter. " _Dear Georgie-poo, I love you! I know you, but you don't know me...yet! I know we were destined for each other—_ eh, George, this's nothin' to go all pink over, son, you should see the stuff Paulie 'ere's dealin' with."

John looked pointedly at the still-pink Paul, trying to ignore the lacy knickers on the floor, then looked skeptically at George, one eyebrow raised. George blushed a little deeper and said tightly, "Keep reading."

John rolled his eyes and continued.

" _I've already planned out our wedding, and the night afterwards. Are you a big boy, little Georgie? I should hope so, because I'm_ quite experienced _in these matters, IF you know what I mean. What I'm trying to say is, I'm an older woman. I turn 73 on the 18_ _th_ _of August, but I just get so turned on by that husky little voice of yours. We should be together FOREVER, Georgie-poo! Lot's of love, Your Cougar, Rachel._ "

There was a moment of silence and then the three Beatles started laughing hysterically as George continued to blush furiously.

"Oh, lay off, would ya?" he grumbled, looking at the floor. "Ritchie's probably got some queer bloke chasin' after 'im, with the nose he's got. Why don't you read one of his?"

"Oi!" Ringo quit laughing to mock-glare at George. "Me neb's not that big. And anyroad, the queers are probably all chasin' after Paulie, what with his girlishness and those damn lashes."

"I am not girlish!" Paul squeaked indignantly.

"Yes, lad, yes you are," John added, smirking at Paul.

There was a tense moment as John smirked at Paul and Paul glared at John. Ringo looked to George and George looked to Ringo.

"So!" Ringo said brightly, with a huge smile plastered on his face. "Why don't we see what I've got, shall we?"

Paul and John reluctantly tore their gazes away from each other to look towards Ringo, who had opened up a letter and had begun reading it.

" _Dearest Ringo, I'm quite a big fan of yours and I had to ask about your nose!_ [George chuckled lightly] _Why is it so big? When you sneeze, does it rattle windows? Do you snore? I have a rather large nose (for a lass, that is) so I know what it's like when your nose doesn't behave. Yours Sincerely, Your Large Nebbed Fan, Rhonda Livingston._ "

Ringo huffed and tossed the letter to the side.

"All about me nose, that's all they want to hear. Your nose is this, your nose is that, can't they just feckin' let it be?"

"Jesus, Rings, never seen you so worked up over a letter," Paul looked over with raised eyebrows at the sulking little drummer.

"It's not just this one, it's all of 'em! All since that bloody interview! All I said was that my nose was rather nice, being so unique and all, but then these bleedin' fans take it the wrong way! They think I love me nose, that I cherish it with each heartbeat or summit, and they keep tellin' me off about it. I don't think I can take it anymore; me fans 'ave turn'd to me mum!"

John, Paul, and George then looked at each other as Ringo sat fuming silently.

"Well," George started. "I'm sure they're not _all_ about yer neb, eh? Like this one 'ere, it looks all official like, I doubt it's be about yer nose." George picked up a red envelope, opened it, and started to read it aloud to Ringo, who's expression had softened just slightly.

" _Dear Mr. Starkey_ – well, isn't that official – _it has come to my attention that your fans are lacking interest in you. That is, fans of The Beatles are hardly ever Ringo fans. They don't like your height, they don't like your nose, and they hate your singing voice._ " George cringed a bit at the insults he was reading to his friend, who's expression had darkened considerably. " _We, however, have developed a plan to help that. We think that if we turned some Paul fans into Ringo fans, that it would balance the scales a bit -_ "

"Oi! They're not doin' nuthin' to me fans, they aren't! I care about 'em, I do, Ringo can't 'ave 'em all-"

"Paul, shut it," John interjected. He motioned for George to continue.

"Um, _it would balance the scales a bit, and help with merchandising as well. All you would have to do is contact us at 1-800-746-4678 or at 200 West Drumlin Avenue, London. Sincerely, A Friend._ "

Ringo was now smiling very, very lightly, only a hint of it was visible around the corners of his mouth.

"Huh," he said, with a strange glint in his eye. "That's summit."

"Oh, I'll tell THEM summit! They can't just mess about with me fans, like! I've got rights! I've got FANS for cryin' out loud! I can't be forgotten just because nobody likes Ringo!" Paul ranted on relentlessly.

"I like Ringo," George said quietly, though it wasn't missed by Ringo, who smiled at him.

John then tried to intervene and stop Paul's incessant ranting, to no avail. George got himself a sandwich (again), and Ringo was left to ponder that letter. How far would he go to be liked?

 **Note From Author: Well, how is it? Honestly, I loved writing the fan-mail, though I feel I could've done better. Should I continue? Should I leave it? Any suggestions? Please review, even as a guest.**

 **Yours Sincerely,**

 **Mo**


	2. Chapter 2A

**Disclaimer: I own the Beatles! Lol, jk, nope. Not that lucky.**

The next day...

[still Third Person POV]

Ringo was sitting in his bed. It was 6:00 in the morning, just about, and no one else was awake. Looking around the room he shared with George, seeing that the other Beatle was snoring away quietly, he reached over, opened the drawer in his bedside table, and pulled out that letter from before. Not the one about his bleedin' nose, but the one that came in the red envelope. Now, Ringo had two very strong arguments going on inside his head. The first one said that this was ridiculous, how did he know it would even work, and also, it doesn't really matter if the other boys have more fans than you. The second argument, however, kept using Ringo's little insecurities and doubts to push him towards calling that number, because he really did want to have fans and he really did want to be liked more than he currently was. These two sides flopped around in Ringo's head, neither one overpowering the other, leaving him in gridlock over the decision.

Paul had just woken up. He was still lying sprawled out in his sleep-position, but his eyes were awake. His head happened to be pointed towards John's bed, and he watched the other man sleep for a bit; his mind was still half-asleep. After about 5 minutes – he though, he couldn't really tell – Ringo's letter from before came into his mind. He honestly didn't really care all that much if some Paul fans were switched to Ringo fans, but he was concerned about whether or not it would be harmful to those poor young girls. 'I mean, who knows if this technology works, if it's safe, or if it even exists? All we know is that Ringo got a letter from "A Friend" saying that he could be more popular if he calls the number. It could be a trap to lure poor little Ritchie astray to hurt him or even-' No, Paul was not going to think about that. Ringo was probably going to be fine. He was older than Paul, after all, by two years. He wouldn't do anything stupid...would he?

Later, at breakfast...

George, who had gotten out of his bed first, leaving Ringo still deep in though, had called room service and ordered just about a three-course meal. He had on his plate a pile of bacon, a pile of sausage, some eggs, toast, a muffin, two pancakes, a waffle, and a chocolate-chip cookie. Basically, he took about half the food. Paul came out of his room, fully dressed and alert looking, and started to take some food.

"Mornin', George"

George, who had his mouth full, made some weird gargling noise that Paul took to mean 'morning'.

The bathroom door could be heard opening, slamming, then a loud bang and some choice curse words that sounded like they were from John. Paul and George looked at each other with raised brows. The noise seemed to have woken Ringo up from his deep thoughts because his head was stuck out the door into the hallway, looking around for the cause of the yelling.

"John, eh?"

"Yup," Paul said.

Ringo then emerged fully from the bedroom and came over to the table, filling up a plate for himself as he went. He then poured himself a glass of water, brought it up to drink it, got it caught on his nose somehow, and spilled it all over himself. He blinked. He sighed. Paul chuckled.

"Got a drinkin' problem, Rich?"

Ringo just looked at him and started to wipe up the water.

"No wonder me fans don't shut up about me nose, I can't even drink cause of it!" Ringo said with amusement.

"Aw, Rings, your fans don't really care that much."

"But Paul, it's not that I care that they notice me nose, it's that that's all they notice about me! I mean, I'm more than just a nose, aren't I?"

"Sure you are! And I'm more than just me lashes but birds still don't stop asking me for tips on 'em. I mean, Georgie here gets lots of comments on his eyebrows and he's more than just brow. Well, kind of."

George looked up from his food to scowl lightly at Paul.

"Thanks, Paul," Ringo said. "I guess you're right. Doesn't really matter, does it?"

John then came stumbling and grumbling out of the bathroom.

"Stupid, damn door with the fast little 'inges gonna take me damn toes off."

He then plopped down between George and Paul, muttering still while getting some food.

Paul looked over to Ringo. They met eyes briefly.

"So..."

"So."

"Have you thought about that weird letter you got yesterday, Rings?"

"A bit, not really," he lied through his teeth, not wanting Paul to get any ideas.

"Bit strange, if you ask me. Convertin' fans, eh?" Paul said this with a hint of suspicion.

"Yeah. Strange."

"I think Ritchie should do it," George piped up.

"Why?" Ringo asked.

"Well, I mean, it'd balance the scales and all that, and it really would be better for merchandisin'. After all, think of all the 'I Love Ringo' shirts going to waste while they can't keep up for the amount of 'I Love Paul' shirts that are bein' bought up. It'd make things easier on 'em, I bet."

"Honestly," John added, grinning. "I think all the George, Ringo, and Paul fans should be converted into John fans. Then, they wouldn't have to make 'I Love George', 'I Love Ringo', or 'I Love Paul' shirts 't all! They could have only 'I Love John' shirts. Wouldn't that be nice?"

All the Beatles laughed at this.

"Naw," Paul chuckled. "They should all of 'em be converted into Paul fans. I mean, most of 'em are already, aren't they?"

"But Paulie, the mothers like me," Ringo grinned. "So everybody'd be 'appier if the fans were all Ringo fans, then they're mums wouldn't 'ave to yell at 'em for gazin' too long at a picture of John or you or George."

"You do have a point there, son," John said. "But then their mothers would be gazin' too long at a picture o' you!"

They all laughed again.

At rehearsal...

They had just finished up the closing bit to 'I Want To Hold Your Hand'.

"Alrighty, boys," Brian Epstein emerged from the recording booth. "That should be enough for right now, you can take a break."

George set his guitar down in its stand and stumbled over to the couch, where he collapsed and went 'oof' as he hit the cushions.

John came over to the couch and sat on his legs.

"You know, son, you shouldn't take up the whole of this couch or people'll sit on you."

"He's right, Georgie," Paul came over and sat on George's back. "I mean, we could fart on you and you'd be trapped!"

George grumbled and flipped over, causing Paul and John to fall unceremoniously onto their behinds.

"Ouch!"

Paul got up and rubbed his butt. John slid like butter down to the floor where he wiggled around aimlessly.

"Paulie, mate, you gotta help me! I think I'm drownin'!"

Paul reached down and grabbed his arm, yanking him upright.

"Christ, a little gentler wouldn't kill ya!"

John rubbed his shoulder where Paul had yanked.

"You two are like a bleedin' married couple, you are."

Ringo stood up from his seat behind the drums, coming over and sitting down in a chair near the couch.

"Oh," George's voice came muffled from the couch. "Just you wait, Ritchie, just you wait. You haven't seen 'em when they're separated for a long time, then they get worse. Whinin' and carryin' on like it's the end o' the world."

"It would be the end of the world without my Paulie!" John fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to faint.

They all laughed.

 **So. Terrible? Great? Mediocre? Worth continuing? Sorry that nothing really happens, I suffered from some writer's block so the plot kinda didn't develop in this chapter. That's why it's labeled as part A of a chapter. Part B will come pretty soon, I hope, so don't get your knickers in a twist. Thanks for reading!**

 **~ Mo**


	3. Chapter 2B

**Disclaimer: If I owned the Beatles, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction about them, now would I?**

It was after dinner when Ringo next thought about the letter. In fact, that's when he dialed the number. After some pushing from George and John and some vague interest from Paul, he pulled the letter out and dialed 1-800-746-4678:

 _-Hello?_

 _-Hello, uh, this is Ringo Starr, I got your letter._

 _-Oh, yes, Ringo. I'm glad you've called. Have you decided whether you want to take part in this?_

 _[pause]_

 _-Yes. I want to._

 _-Good, good. Now, it will be very easy on your part. All you have to do is come to 200 West Drumlin Avenue and sign a few papers for me. Oh, and your friend Paul will have to come and sign as well. In fact, you might as well bring the whole four of you._

 _-Okay. Sure._

 _-Now, how soon can you come?_

 _-Um...West Drumlin? That's in London, aye? Probably the soonest possible would be about seven hours from now, if we took the fastest flight._

 _-Good, you do that. I'm assuming you can afford that?_

 _-Oh, yes, shouldn't be a problem._

 _-Good. Then come as quickly as possible, all four of you. I'll see you soon._

 _[line dies]_

Ringo turns around and faces his mates.

"Alright, then, we're taking the fastest flight from here to London, all four of us, so get ready and be quick. We shouldn't stay there too long, Brian'll want us back for concerts and such."

"Excuse me," John said, slightly irritated. "But since when do you get to decide where we're goin' and when we'll be goin' there? I thought I was the leader?"

"You are, but we got to do this if we want to go through with this. And after all, you said it'd be gear to try it."

"I still think it's a good idea," George said pointedly.

Paul stayed silent, secretly a bit jealous of all the special attention Ringo was getting.

On the plane...

They had ordered a private jet for the 7-hour flight to London. They were kind of in the middle of the plane, but same row for each pair. John was sitting in the window seat, looking out the window. Paul sat next to him filing his nails quietly on a little emery board. George was on the other side, isle seat, pointedly looking away from all windows and into his lap. Ringo was reading the newspaper in the window seat next to George. All was quiet except the _scritch scritch_ of Paul's nail file scraping on his nails.

 _Scritch scritch_

 _scritch scritch_

 _scritch scritch_

 _scritch scritch_

"Paul, do you mind?" John snapped, whipping around to face Paul. He (Paul) had a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.

"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly.

It was now silent. Ringo rustled a page in his newspaper. John breathed. Paul's nostril started whistling.

"Actually, Paul, do you think you could keep doin' that? It's sorta calmin', you know?" George looked up towards Paul. John sighed, "Fine."

Paul looked at his nails, which were about as short as they could get without hurting.

"Heh, actually, Georgie, me nails are pretty well done by now, son. Sorry."

George looked a little disappointed.

Ringo looked at George.

"Hey, George, you could listen to me radio. It's under me seat if you want it."

( **A/N:** Yeah, I know that radios don't work like this, just deal with it.)

Ringo lifted his legs up as George reached for the radio. He flipped it on, tuned it, and listened:

" _Good evening listeners! You are listening to New Yorks finest radio station, WMCA. Up next we have 'The Ventures' with 'Walk, Don't Run'._ "

The song came on and George started head-bobbing along.

John groaned internally. This was going to be a long trip.

They had landed in the airport and were now driving in a taxi to 200 West Drumlin Ave. None of them were feeling very excited about this because of the look the cab-driver had given them when they told him the address. It was about a half-hour drive from the airport to their destination. As the car pulled up the long and winding drive, it looked like a scene out of some old horror movie, like Psycho or maybe North by Northwest. Getting out of the car, the four Beatles looked around. Their footsteps crunched the gravel below them, and the wind could be heard whistling through the trees above. A cloud moved away and the moonlight shone down upon the large mansion. Suddenly, it started to rain cats and dogs, drenching the Beatles immediately. A lightning strike lit up the place with a _CRACK!_

The door creaked open. An old man stood in the doorway holding a candelabra. He looked about 103 years old. John shivered as he stepped forward.

"Uh, hello, yes. Um, we're the Beatles, and we're here with Richard Starkey, or, uh, Ringo."

The man peered over his little granny-glasses.

" _Come in_..."

 **Dun, dun, dun! Cliffhanger! Sorry that this took two parts to write, I might combine them sometime. Yup. Anyway, review, please!**

 **~ Mo**


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles. I do own this story, though, so no plagiarism!**

" _Come in..._ "

The man stepped to the side and allowed the Beatles to get in out of the pouring rain. He gestured for them to follow him. They went up some stairs and down a dank hallway smelling of mold and old dust. The man pulled a large, circular key-ring from his pocket and unlocked a door. He opened it and stepped inside.

"Woah..."

Paul looked around in awe; there was a giant, cavernous room before them, filled with all sorts of gadgets and machinery. The ceiling was glass, and he could see the rain pouring down upon it. The old man – he assumed he was the butler – stepped around him and walked towards a corner of the room that was curtained off with a large, velvet sheet of deep red.

"Blimey," George said as they approached the mysterious corner of the mysterious room.

The butler/old man opened the curtain with a _SWISH_ and the Beatles stepped inside. It was like a conference room, almost, with a large oval-shaped table in the center with wooden chairs set up around it. At the far end of the table was a woman who looked to be in her 30s or 40s, with long red hair and brown cats-eye glasses set atop her pointed nose. She seemed like the type that was beautiful ten years ago, and was starting to age out of it.

"Sit," she commanded. She had a posh English accent; the kind you'd expect from London.

Ringo sat directly opposite her, with John to his left and Paul and George to his right.

"Richard Starkey, I am assuming?" she asked, looking at Ringo.

"Yup."

"Good, good. Now, those papers are right..." she paused as she bent over and grabbed a large portfolio from beside her. "Here. Now, you'll need to sign this first page, the third page, and the seventh. And your friend Paul here," she looked around to find him. Paul raised his hand. "Paul will have to sign on page five and eight."

She passed around the papers alone with a pen. Ringo and Paul quickly signed their names in the allotted spaces.

"Done?" the woman asked.

Ringo and Paul nodded.

"Good. Now, before you leave, take this, it's my business card. Contact me if there are any problems. Oh, and by the way, my name is Margaret Flowers."

She got up, collected the papers that were signed, and handed Ringo a small card with her information on it.

"Bye, now!"

She called after them as they made their way out of the little room-inside-a-room. The butler led them outside again, where their taxi was still waiting patiently. They hopped in and headed for the airport.

Back in New York...

The car pulled up to their hotel. It was now 9:00 in the morning, and the Beatles were completely knackered. They stumbled up to the elevator, and then flopped their way into their respective beds, falling asleep almost instantaneously.

After about 12 hours...

John woke up first, having an uncomfortable need to use the loo. He tried to stand up but he was tangled in his bedsheets, so he fell face-first onto the ground – _WHUMP!_

"Urrrrrrgghhhh," the lump on the ground mumbled.

Paul, who had been sleeping peacefully, woke up now and groggily looked around. Spotting the John-lump on the floor, he rubbed his eyes and said, "Y'alright there, Johnny?"

John then pushed himself up off the floor into a semi-upright position.

"Yeh, 'm fine. Jus' was gonna go spend a penny*."

"Ah. Alright, then. Goodnight," Paul said, flopping back into his pillow.

John pulled himself up with the help of his bed, and then made his way, sleepily, to the toilet.

While John was in there, he looked out the small window, noticing it was dark outside because it was evening...again.

"Jesus, I slept a lot," he mumbled to himself.

He then peered around at the people walking and the cars driving past. He saw several birds with 'I Love John' shirts, causing him to grin a little. But what really caught his attention, was the sheer amount of 'I Love Ringo', 'Ringo's the Starr', 'Ringo I Love You', 'Future Mrs. Starr', and other Ringo related stuff, which, to him, seemingly appeared overnight. And what shocked him more, was that he didn't see a single 'I Love Paul' slogan anywhere.

"It really worked!"

Paul woke up next, after not really being able to fall back asleep after John woke him up. He wondered vaguely why he was in his clothes, but then the previous day's adventure came back to him.

"Cor blimey," he exclaimed. "I hope I'm not completely forgotten."

Pulling himself out of bed, he straightened the clothes he had on and headed to the bathroom to check his hair. He pulled open the drawer where he kept his special comb, the one that said 'Paul's the Cutest' on it. He grabbed for the comb and nearly dropped it when he saw it read 'Ringo's the Cutest'!

"Ringo?! Ringo the cutest?! That's not fair! I mean, Ringo's popularity boost is fine, but _I'm_ the 'Cute Beatle', not Ringo. Or has that changed, 's well?" Paul ranted to himself. "Am I now supposed to be funny? I can crack a few jokes, 'n all, but not 's much as Rich. Jesus, this is strange."

"Hrmmmmmm..."

Ringo groaned as he woke up; sleep was numbing his limbs too much to move. He opened his eyes and stared at a little crinkle in his pillow until he could feel his fingers enough to scratch his nose.

"Good mornin', sleepy head," George said.

Ringo grunted in reply.

"Come on now, up with you. Don't wanna miss breakfast, do ya?"

Ringo chuckled. To George, that was the worst possible thing you could do. Ringo flopped onto his back and let out a sigh.

"You do realize that I might not be hungry, oh great Lord of Food."

"Not Hungry!" George exclaimed. "Why that's a crime punishable by death, if I do say so meself."

Ringo giggled. It was a _manly_ giggle, or so he told himself.

"Oh, see, now you're delirious. You better get some food in ya, Rich, or you'll waste away."

George walked over and yanked Ringo's legs until he fell off his bed with an 'oof!'

"Oi! I got rights! Ya can't just take away me lyin' in bed privileges, now can ya?"

"I can, as a matter of fact, because I am the Lord of Food, and you are but a lowly food-peasant."

"Food-peasant? I'm pretty sure ya mean food- _pheasant_!"

George laughed.

Paul then opened the door and stuck his head inside.

"What's this about then, eh? We gotta go do stuff, ya know. Stop your larking about and get a move on! Oh, and Ringo, you're not cute."

Paul then shut the door rather forcefully and stalked off to go have breakfast/dinner with John, grumbling all the way about cuteness, and how unfair it was that he put all this effort into it and then Ringo can just go and take it away.

George looked over at Ringo and smirked, "Sorry, Richie, but your chances with Paul are dashed, they are. But don't feel bad, you're cute enough."

Ringo rolled his eyes amusedly.

"Why thank you, Georgie, just was I was aimin' for. D'ya think I got more fluffy-kitten cuteness or Paul McCartney cuteness?"

"Ha! Hard to decide. Maybe crazed-baby-elephant would fit ya better, what with your nose and all."

They laughed and walked out to have whatever that meal was called.

Later...

So. The Beatles were on their way to yet another late night interview. They arrived, sat in their chairs, and got ready as the reporters filed in. The interviewer came in last, some man with a funky name that they couldn't remember, but it was probably David Something-or-Other. And so, the questions began...

The interviewer (let's just call him TI for short), turned towards them.

"Welcome, welcome. I'm so glad you could join us. For you folks at home, you probably know that these are the Beatles! John, Ringo, George, and Paul."

Those four said young men widened their eyes a bit at the changed placement of Ringo and Paul's names.

"Uh, thanks for 'avin' us. It's a pleasure, really," Paul said, feeling slightly off because of all the Ringo business.

"Now, Ringo, let's start out with the question I'm sure everyone wants to know: What's it like being the most popular person in the most popular band?"

John and George froze, Paul bristled, and Ringo didn't really know what to say.

"Uh," he started. "I haven't noticed it that much to be honest."

TI laughed.

"Well, folks, isn't he modest? Now, we've had several viewers submit questions to ask you four. We'll start off with..." he pulled out a stack of about 12 letters. "George. Susan from California wants to know if you'll marry her."

Everyone laughed.

"Well," George chuckled. "I'll get back to you on that."

"John, Tracy from Nevada wants to know if you'll ever divorce Cynthia."

John chuckled and gave a little grin.

"No, sweetie, I don't plan on doin' that any time soon. 'A-plus' for effort, though."

"Now, Ringo, Rhonda from Pennsylvania wants to know what your type of girl is."

"Uh..." Ringo flushed a little and grinned. "I guess me type of girl would be me girlfriend Maureen."

A chorus of _Awww_ 's was heard from the audience.

"Alright, Paul, here's one for you. Lucy from right here in New York wants to know if you pluck your eyebrows."

Chuckles were heard.

"No, Lucy, no I don't," Paul said with a smile.

Several more questions were asked, most of them directed at Ringo. Paul was slowly getting fed up. Finally, when he had heard one-too-many 'Ringo I love you, Paul you suck', he got up, excused himself bruskly and left to the bathroom.

He opened the door, walked to the sink, and looked at his face in the mirror.

"You used to be somebody, Paulie. Ringo's great, and all, but..." he sighed. "I hate to admit it, but I'm jealous of little Richie."

Paul leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. He heard the door open and flicked his eyes up to see John walking in, a cheesy little grin on his face.

"'ey, Paulie, watcha up to?"

Paul just sighed and shook his head.

"Is this about Ringo?"

Paul flushed a little. He knew he shouldn't be this jealous, but when one gets accustomed to fame, one comes to expect it.

"Yes..."

"Aw, Paulie," John came over and started rubbing his back. "You know Rich doesn't mean it to be spiteful of ya. He just wanted a little time in the spotlight, y'know? I mean, he get's left out of things most times, seems only fair that he gets a chance to be famous."

Paul took a deep breath.

"I know. See, I _know_ this stuff, I just can't make meself _believe_ it. I think it's great that Richie gets some star-time, heh, but I can't help feelin' a bit robbed of it."

"I understand, Paulie. The interview's over, now, anyway, so you don't have to go back there. You'll be fine, I know it. Come here, you," John pulled Paul into a big bear-hug.

Paul smiled.

"Thanks, John. You're right, I'll be fine. It's just some silly jealousy, 's all."


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I Don't Own The Beatles**

When last we left the Beatles...

John: Was helping Paul with Paul's jealousy

Paul: Was feeling jealous of Ringo

George: Was sitting in an interview

Ringo: Was sitting in an interview, enjoying all the new attention

Now, let's see what they're up to now, shall we?

Paul's jealousy may be silly, but it continued to grow over the next couple of days. Whenever they were signing autographs, the line for Ringo would be out the door while the only people that wanted his autograph were the 'whole group' people. Not only that, but he was trying to chat up this blonde bird but she just walked away and ignored him! People don't just _ignore_ Paul McCartney! Okay, maybe he was taking this too far. He wasn't Lord of Attraction, anyway...

While Ringo was enjoying the new popularity he had, he was also finding it quite annoying. He would be put on the spot so many times and people only wanted to hear from him! No one would give him a bloomin' break! He just wanted to grab a sandwich, for cryin' out loud, was that too much to ask? It was tiring him out, that's for sure. Also, apparently John and Ringo were the only ones who could speak, because they were the only ones asked questions. Ringo was even asked if George like hamburgers! George was sitting right there, and they asked _Ringo_! It was getting crazy.

John was starting to get annoyed with Ringo. While the drummer seemed to be a bit shocked and unhappy by the amount of attention he was getting, Paul was getting seriously jealous and having a big ego bruise. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, what with Paul's massive ego. Anyway, John was probably going to have a talk with Ringo at some point about switching everything back. It was only for the best, anyhow.

George was hungry. He had looked all over for any food in the little hotel room they were staying at, but he couldn't find any! _Any_! At all! In the whole place! He had thought about going to the store, but they got back around 11 pm, so not a lot of places would be open, and they were on strict orders from Brian to _stay inside the d- hotel!_ Now that George thought about it, there had been lots of food when they left. Someone must have eaten it all...But who? Not Paul, he was busy moping. John was busy helping Paul with his moping. Ringo...? Maybe. George would have to ask him about it.

"Hey, Rich, ya in there?"

George knocked on the door of their shared bedroom, about to confront Ringo about the missing food.

A loud gulping sound came from the room, then Ringo's voice saying, "Yeah, 'm in here. You can come in if ya want."

George opened the door and stepped inside.

…

He stared in shock, eyes wide, mouth gaping open.

Ringo had _all the food_. All the food. Ringo had all of it. All. All of the food. Food. All of it. Ringo.

Ringo looked back at George, flushing a little under his very-un-subtle-gaping. Yeah, he knew it wasn't the best idea to keep all this food in the bedroom, but he didn't want John or George or Paul coming in and eating all of it before he could have any. He was starved! He hadn't had any food all day, and hardly any yesterday because he was busy talking to reporters and giving interviews and signing autographs, etc, etc, etc.

"Uh, George?"

No response.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Ringo said sarcastically.

George then shook his head, blinking a couple times.

"Uh, sorry, Richie. Uh...what d'ya got all that food there for?"

"Oh, I was tryin' to make a castle," Ringo joked.

"Haha, very funny. You took all the food in the house! I'm starvin' over here and you've got all the food _in the house_ right there and you're not sharin'! How's that fair?!" George snapped.

"I 'aven't eaten since yesterday because of all those bloody reporters askin' their bloody questions and there wasn't any time to eat! I'm starved, I am!"

"You do realize you can tell them to shut up and go get yourself some food."

Ringo flushed.

"Well, I didn't want to be rude! And how'm I supposed to know that, this is new for me! Paul's supposed to be the one getting' all the questions asked. I don't want this anymore, I can't it, Georgie."

"But," George said, confused. "I thought you were jealous of all Paul's attention and wanted it for yourself?"

"Heh, no way in 'ell do I want it now. I never was jealous of Paul, I just wanted to know what it was like to be so popular. I love Paul, he's like me brother. I wouldn't want to take away somethin' he likes just to spite 'im."

"Well, that's good to know. I think you should tell him, Rich. He's been feelin' pretty down about this whole business."

"Yeah, you're right. I think I will."

Meanwhile...

John and Paul were in their shared bedroom, just lying in Paul's bed and listening to some old Elvis record.

"Johnny?" Paul asked, turning to look at John.

"Yeah?"

"D'ya think Richie...d'ya think he...-"

"Just spit it out, will ya?"

"Sorry...d'ya think Richie doesn't like me?"

John turned over to look at Paul, who was staring at his fingers which were crossed over his chest.

"Paulie, I don't think that 't all. I know Richie loves ya just like 'e loves George and me and how I love all of you. I really don't think he did this to spite ya. I think he honestly just wanted to try it. In fact, I think you should go ask him right now. He'll probably tell ya what I told ya, y'know, but it's worth it, really."

"Ya think so?" Paul turned to look at John again?

"I know so."

Paul then hoisted himself out of bed and walked over to the door, turning around to look at John.

"Thanks."

"No problem, now go talk to Ringo!"

Paul smiled and went over to Ringo and George's room. He opened the door a bit, but paused when he heard a conversation going on.

"But," George said, sounding confused. "I thought you were jealous of all Paul's attention and wanted it for yourself?"

"Heh, no way in 'ell do I want it now. I never was jealous of Paul, I just wanted to know what it was like to be so popular. I love Paul, he's like me brother. I wouldn't want to take away somethin' he likes just to spite 'im."

"Well, that's good to know. I think you should tell him, Rich. He's been feelin' pretty down about this whole business."

"Yeah, you're right. I think I will."

Paul saw Ringo get up and start walking towards the door. Ringo opened it and started a bit, surprised at seeing Paul standing right there with big, watery eyes.

"Aw, Richie," Paul said.

Ringo blinked.

Paul then threw his arms around Ringo in a big squeeze-your-guts-out hug. Ringo returned it, slightly confused as to why Paul was being so emotional.

"I love you, too, Rich, I love you, too."

Ringo then called up Margaret Flowers and told her he wanted the switch reversed. She was a bit disappointed, but was fine with it overall. The next day everything was back to normal.

"And now, viewers, we welcome those four young lads from Liverpool! John! Paul! George! And Ringo!"

THE END


End file.
